Sansa Stark is breaking her fast with the Tyrells again. She could have well declined whatever they outright offered. But it doesn't mean the girl isn't desperate for the presented chance or for a more pleasant company at the very least.
Tywin clasps his hands behind his back, turning away from the plot taking root in the Keep's gardens.
Those perfumed Roses. Always acting delicate, but quite opportunistic at every turn. If they think they're capable of stealing the key to the North right under his claws then they are sorely mistaken.
"Her eyes shine like gemstones while looking at him.", Cersei observes with disdain, lightly shakes her head in disappointment as she leans back on her chair. "The little dove doesn't see Ser Loras's lack of interest for her rosy cheeks and pouty lips." Green eyes that mirror his own stare up at him with boredom. "It's exactly what I've told you, Father. She's a blind foolish girl." His daughter releases an exasperated sigh and refills her wine glass.
Tywin returns to his seat and helps himself to a cup of water. Gears turn in his mind. They would have to act swiftly in order to secure the Stark girl and her right to the North.
"Sansa Stark must be wed.", he starts and picks a piece of bread from the basket, tearing it into smaller portions. "Tommen is not yet betrothed." He feels rather than see the Queen Regent bristling in her seat.
"Father, please." The poison that usually accompanies each of his daughter's words dissipate into nothing. Her eyes turn towards him, pleading. "Tyrion has already sold my only daughter to Dorne. I won't stand for Tommen marrying the daughter of a traitor."
"Does it escape your pretty head that any man who marries Sansa Stark can lay claim on Winterfell and the rest of the North?"
"Who cares about that cold castle and the barren lands north of the Neck?"
Tywin scoffs.
"The Crown cares."
Cersei withers under his stare. No matter how smart she might think she is. No matter how invincible she might think she is with that glimmering crown upon her golden hair. The current Queen is still his daughter. His to teach. His to discipline. His to rule.
"The realm is of seven kingdoms lest you've forgotten how to count."
Her lips curl in displeasure. He allows reality to seep into her before continuing.
"Joffrey rules in King's Landing. His firstborn son with Lady Margaery will sit in Dragonstone the moment we clean it of Stannis's remnants. Tommen will claim the Stormlands once he's of age and one of his children with Sansa Stark will take control of the North in the agreeable future."
"Sansa still has two younger brothers." Cersei speaks up. "I'm sure you have not forgotten about those boys' existence."
Tywin levels a glare at his only daughter.
"That bird has no younger brothers left." He throws a parchment on the table. "The Young Wolf is betrayed by Balon Greyjoy's only living son and has taken Winterfell along with the little lords' lives." He watches Cersei read through the tight letters.
"Once Robb Stark perishes in this losing cause of his, Sansa Stark will have no brothers left besides that bastard sworn in the Night's Watch."
The news reaches Sansa before midday. She bars herself in her chambers and allows herself to weep.
Her family is betrayed at every turn.
There is no one can they could trust.
Theon has lived with them, played with them. He has grown strong into a young man under the protection of House Stark and yet...
And yet...
Her younger brothers are robbed off of their father, mother, brothers, sisters, and now their lives. Theon burned them, they say. Burned still breathing or already dead, they won't say. Winterfell has fallen to the hands of the Ironborn. She has nowhere to name home unless the war is won by Robb.
She wants her mother. She wants her mother and siblings. She wants to be surrounded by Starks, fierce and just and loving.
Oh please gods... Please let none of it be true...
She aches for the lulling walls of Winterfell. She aches for the great weirdwood tree. She misses Old Nan and Maester Luwin. She misses the life that has long left her.
Sansa's grief digs into her like a rusted dagger, repeatedly stabbing and leaving her to bleed. She claws on the linens, buries her face in the bedding as hard as she could, for as long as she could until she's drowning in her own tears.
Her life is not a song.
It's a mere series of cruelties.
And the gods won't hear her prayers.
Lord Tyrion is the first and most likely the only Lannister who will bother to express his condolences for her loss.
His mismatched eyes look to her with pure sympathy.
"Lady Sansa..." His small, pudgy hands fidget at his sides. It's difficult to look at him with his injuries sustained from the Battle of Blackwater quite prominent on his face.
But Sansa has learned that beyond what most of the court has deemed monstrous features, beyond what's superficial resides someone who can be called a friend.
"Would you like me to escort you to the godswood?"
Sansa dries her tears as much as she could and accepts Lord Tyrion's offer. And the moment she sets a foot outside of her room, she feels the unseen mask she has to wear harden even more.
Delight illuminates Cersei's face, thinking she has gotten what she wanted like she always does. Her youngest son, Tommen, won't be marrying the Stark girl after his mother deliberated well enough how the match is perfect for a future date, but how it's detrimental for the current state of affairs. Tommen is too young to be assertive. Time is of the essence on the matter and waiting is a luxury not in their grasp.
Tywin picked another golden card in his mind. His brother's son and heir - Lancel Lannister. To his surprise, Cersei objected yet again, quite strongly for a cousin of hers he has known holds nothing of her regard. Squire to late King Robert. Knighted by his widowed Queen. Perhaps Cersei places some worth on him. After all, family is important. He doesn't want to entertain other reasons for her disagreement.
"His arrogance won't do our House any good. He has milk in his veins and will be incapable of cowling the Northmen."
The third husband is brought forth for his judgement by his clever daughter.
"Give her to Tyrion, Father. He's yet to have a betrothed. A man of his age should have long wed."
And so they wait in the Tower of the Hand's council chamber for his youngest to grace them with his presence. Cersei has worn a new crimson gown, clearly in a celebratory mood for her wonderful idea.
But is Tyrion the best route to take in this matter?
Tywin envisions the fruits of this arrangement in the long run. Tyrion has a mind for the manipulations in politics. But the North does not give a damn. That kingdom requires brute strength and formidable will. Stark. A Great House that has stood for over eight thousand years according to legend. The Targaryen have come and gone. Their dragons have terrorized and perished. And the Starks remain reigning over their vast lands.
That is an example of legacy.
And it would be dim of him if he allows that to slip away.
Tyrion has not turned up.
Tywin dismissed Cersei and has taken it upon himself to search for Tyrion. But first he must see to the Stark girl. His interrogation of Sansa Stark's handmaid leads him to the Godswood. And there, he also finds his son.
The girl is in prayer. Pious on her knees among the trees. The Keep's godswood lacks the weirdwood tree House Stark worships. But its absence does not dissuade her intentions.
Tyrion notices his approach, not missing the clanking of his guards' armors. His son walks up to his company before he could get too close.
"Do you have need of me?", he asks, uncomfortable under his scrutiny.
Tywin's eyes flick down to Tyrion then back to the Stark girl under the shroud of alder and elm trees. It's most curious how the scarred man strikes useful friendships.
"Have you attended to the preparations for the Royal Wedding?"
Tyrion avoids his gaze, looks down at his boots and then to the praying girl. "I'm afraid not." The youngest of his children does every anxious thing possible in the next seconds besides twiddling his little thumbs.
"And you are still standing around here why?"
"I'll see to the finances then. If you'd excuse me, Father."
Tywin watches Tyrion waddle out of the godswood in no real hurry. He turns to his guards the moment his son is out of sight.
"Stay here."
The Great Lion stalks towards the lone wolf.
Lord Lannister is nearby, prowling at the edge of the godswood, watching her intently.
What does he want? Can't he be considerate like her lord father?
Sansa has heard stories about Lord Tywin, the Hand of the Mad King. They say he has ruled the realm since King Aerys. Even when he resigned and returned to Casterly Rock, the seven kingdoms has conveniently stayed within his pockets. They say he's the most powerful man in Westeros... in the whole world. They say he's king in every way but name.
And Sansa, like many others before her, is intimidated by him.
It's useless pretending not to have noticed his arrival, so she gathers her skirts and dusts them of leaves and dirt. There's a numbness on her legs that she chooses to ignore as she stands in attention.
"My lord.", she greets, too emotionally exhausted to even exert false cheeriness. She doubts Lord Tywin would buy the pretense anyway, so why bother.
He lingers on the stone steps, towering and imposing. She resists the urge to take a step back when the sound of his boots crushing the grass reach her ears.
"Condolences, Lady Sansa."
His leveled voice passes over the syllables, nothing but an empty recital. Ire flares within her. It froths in her chest like poison. If she can be certain of anything then his expression of sympathy is worth a grain of salt. Her eyes snap up at him, unaware of the glare she's sporting.
His face lacks emotions, sculpted to stay in control and unfeeling. He looks at her as if he's expecting an action that she would later regret. She is, after all, a stupid girl.
"Thank you." She lifts her stare off of him, shifts it back on his feet. "Bran and Rickon are only children. And I loved them dearly." She murmurs to herself, fingers wringing the fabric of her skirts.
"Do you have need of me, Lord Tywin?" The haste in her words is made explicit. She wants to escape this talk as soon as possible.
"I do.", the lord responds but doesn't elaborate. "But I'll leave you to your prayers for now, my lady." She dislikes the look in his eyes, ever appraising, like she's nothing but a commodity to be sold.
"I want what is mine by right."
Later in the night, Tywin sits seething in his solar. The events that transpired earlier in the afternoon replayed in his mind.
"I am your son and lawful heir."
I am your son. Tywin grinds his teeth, relishes in the pain in his jaw. Anger brews inside of him. For all these years, he has no proof, only an inkling that refuses to go away. Aerys with his tricks and his insults and his envy.
Tywin holds no proof. To even consider the possibility stokes his rage. His woman touched by another. Forced. To not consider it is stupid. The Anniversary Tourney for the Mad King. The king's obsession with his lady wife. The king's obsession to undermine him. Tyrion is no son of his. He wanted to carry the misshapen babe out to the sea. He wanted to create falsehoods and claim that Tyrion died with his mother. He wanted a lot of things. But he wanted her returned to him the most.
Joanna.
Even just the thought of her name cuts deep. His breath hitches when he releases it. Composure comes back to him in pathetic trickles. His knuckles has turned white gripping the armrests.
"Casterly Rock is mine by right."
Tyrion had the audacity of asking him for Casterly Rock, the seat of his father and his fathers before him. His seat. His.
Tyrion talked about birth rights. Talked about his lawful claim.
The audacity.
He who took everything from him. Everything that matters. Everything.
He won't hand it off to him. His so called heir by law. Tywin won't bend to some law. He won't be cheated. He won't be powerless to such technicalities.
War breeds marriages.
His legacy won't be determined by a half-man who could be the last Targaryen king's bastard.
"What do you think the Lord Hand wants from me?", Sansa asks Shae, her new handmaid. The young woman dutifully brushes her auburn hair, lopsidedly smiles at her through the mirror. Sansa thinks of her as pretty with those black curls of hers and playful brown eyes.
"To talk with you, m'lady." Sansa sees her mouth twitch as if she has more to say, but Shae holds back in the end.
"About what? Surely it won't be about the weather."
"Who really knows, Lady Sansa." Shae whispers near her hair, her fingers sliding around the silken strands, looking seemingly proud of her finished work. "But you mustn't be late and you must always wear a smile on your lips when you see Lord Lannister."
Sansa scrutinizes herself on the mirror. Uncertainty adorns her blue eyes. Shae had made her hair into a shining curtain of red and orange flowing down the small of her back. Like a sunset. Or a sunrise. She wears a crimson dress, one of the few the Queen Regent has given her. Lannister colors to please Lord Lannister. On her lap lies the gold cloak she intends to show gratitude for and return.
Her heart is thundering caged in her ribs.
"You've been set aside by your King."
For the past long minutes, supper is accompanied by the gentle winds and the soft tinkling of their cutlery and nothing else until that moment. Sansa hastily swallows the tender portion of rabbit stew she has been chewing, eager to deliver a prompt response.
"Unfortunately so, my Lord." She sees the Lord Hand quite taken with his meal, not even sparing a single look towards her direction. "But it's true... I'm unworthy of the king's love for I am tainted with the blood of a traitor."
"Surely you would like to rid yourself of that taint."
"O-Of course." She washes the saltiness on her tongue with a sip of wine. "I'm not a traitor... And I will never be one, my lord." The words sting her inside like angry hornets. Every time she is left with no choice but to declare false allegiance for her captors, her skin is like set in flames. Her older brother is fighting a war for their betrayed father... for her, while she sits in a pretty dress dining with those who want him dead.
"So you say."
Sansa looks away from the Lord Hand.
Family. Duty. Honor.
If she places any importance on her mother's words then she would most likely be dead, rotting on a spike, mounted on the gates.
But winter is coming.
She would endure. She must. One day she would restore honor to her family's name. That is her duty to herself, what she must see through for everything that she has lost.
"You will marry into House Lannister, Lady Sansa."
Lord Tywin's voice has lowered to that drawl full of finality. Her lips part to ask to which Lannister she would be wed to but is halted by the narrowing look in the lord's eyes.
"Through me."
I'm to marry him? Lord Tywin himself?
Time stops with that phrase, along with her heart and the rest of her coherence.
"I won't allow this war to drag longer." Lord Tywin continues, uncaring for the girl consumed with shock before him. "A union between our Houses would be vital for the realm to have a semblance of stability, for the Crown and the North as well. You are aware that my eldest son, Jaime, is the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."
The lord's pause stretches on, meaning Lord Tywin is expecting a reaction out of her.
"Y-Yes, my l-lord." It's no use, her voice has already cracked but Sansa fights the burn in her eyes. She will not cry, at least not in front of him.
"With his oath, he has given up claim to Casterly Rock leaving me with no heir."
"Lord Tyr-" Sansa bites on her tongue, tastes the iron of her blood, the glare Lord Tywin is directing at her is nothing but strangling, like the next breath she takes would offend the Great Lion. Fire seems alight in those usually cold eyes of his. Green fire like wild fire. Dangerous and unforgiving.
"My daughter said that you've started bleeding." Bleeding. Most would say have flowered. But pleasantries as such are lost on Lord Tywin. Bleed then breed then bleed all over again. A lady's worth is measured by the heirs she could birth for her lord. A brutal but simple reality.
"Yes, my lord."
"Then we have nothing to worry about. Do you have a clear understanding of what's to be done, my lady?"
Sansa feels her real self retreating to the deepest recesses of her being. Running down halls and bolting doors. The mask talks in her stead, a shell.
"I'll give you heirs, my lord. Strong heirs... for Casterly Rock." Her voice is haunted, disembodied. A doll talking.
Lord Tywin seems to note the change in her demeanor. But he nods ever so slightly, an acknowledgement of her effort.
"And for Winterfell.", he adds, solidifying her task.
The rest of the world fades into nothing. She is to marry the man who would be her brother's murderer.
In the darkness of her room, Sansa cowers in a corner, unable to sleep. The golden cloak lies before her on the cold floor, its return unaccepted.
"It's yours."
A cloak suitable for Lady Lannister.
Sansa shivers and curls in on herself.
Lord Lannister needs an heir, an heir and a spare. As many as she can possibly carry in her miserable life.
She knows well of the reason he's marrying her - the daughter of a traitor. Her younger brothers have been reduced to ashes. Her older brother is fighting a losing battle. But she would stay - the only living daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North.
She would stay, continue living, and surviving under the grace of the monsters who labelled her lord father a traitor and took his head.
The North only remembers the Stark name, would only honor the Stark name as its protector.
And once the Lannisters and their cohorts are done, she's the only one whose name would be Stark.
So Tywin Lannister would bring that only one into his bed. To breed lions in wolf coating. To take the North as his own. To consume the realm with his whim.